At four o’clock that evening Simpkins entered the servants’ sitting room. Lola happened to be alone, surrounded by _Tatlers_, _Punches_ and _Bystanders_, fretting a little and longing to try her paces. “Good old,” he said, “Mr. Fallaray has got to dine at the Savoy to-night with his Ma and Auntie from the country. One of them family affairs which, not coming too frequently, does him good. And you’re free. How about another show, Princess?” He had recently taken to calling her princess. “There’s another American play on which ain’t bad, I hear. Let’s sample it. What do you say?” Mr. Fallaray.—The Savoy—— Without giving the matter an instant’s thought, Lola shook her head. “_Too bad, Simpky,_” she said, “I promised Mother to go home to-night. She has some friends coming and I am going to help her.” “Oh,” said Simpkins, extremely disappointed. “Well, then, I’ll take you ’ome and if I’m very good and put on a new tie I may be asked,—I say I may——” He paused, having dropped what he considered to be a delicate hint. This was a most awkward moment. Mr. Fallaray—The Savoy—That new frock. And here was Simpkins butting in and standing with his head craned forward as if to meet the invitation halfway. So she said, as cool as a cucumber, “Mother will be very disappointed not to be able to ask you, Simpky, because she likes you so much. She enjoyed both times you came home with me. So did Father. But, you see, our drawing-room is very small and Mother has asked too many people as it is. Get tickets for tomorrow night and I shall be very glad to go with you.” There was no guile in Lola’s eye and not the smallest hesitation in her speech. Simpkins bore up bravely. He knew these parties and the way in which some hostesses allowed their rooms to brim over. And, anyway, it was much better to have Lola all to himself. He could live for Saturday. “Righto,” he said. “Let me know when you’re ready to go and if you feel like a taxicab——” “I couldn’t think of it,” said Lola. “You spend much too much money, Simpky. You’re an absolute profiteer. I shall go by Tube and this time a friend of mine is fetching me.” “Treadwell?” She nodded and calmly examined a picture of Lopodoski in one of her latest contortions. There was a black cloud on Simpkins’s face. He had met Ernest at the Breezys’ house. He had seen the way in which this boy gazed at Lola,—lanky, uncouth, socialistic young cub. He was not jealous, good Lord, no. That would be absurd. A junior librarian with a salary that was far less than any plumber got, and him a man of means with the “Black Bull” at Wargrave on the horizon. All the same, if he heard that Ernest Treadwell had suddenly been run over by a pantechnicon and flattened out like a frog—— And that was why he sat down on the sofa a little too close to Lola and dared to possess himself of her hand. “Princess,—you know ’ow I feel. You know what you’ve done to me.”